The desert wind carried silence.

  Not peace.

  That stifling kind of silence right before something explodes.

  Bar’zhul stood at the canyon mouth, cloak dancing with the sand. Two elite guards flanked him, but it was clear they were just a formality. His eyes were locked on Rell—no amusement now. Only calculation.

  “You made a mess,” Bar’zhul said, voice dry like flint on flint. “Killed half my lieutenants. Freed the ape. Scattered my routes. Why?”

  Rell didn’t answer.

  He set Neyxa gently against a boulder. Her eyes were open now, hazy but tracking. Ko Mala stood beside her, arm clutched over his ribs. Thessia stood slightly behind Rell, hand on the hilt of her curved blade.

  Bar’zhul stepped forward, each movement fluid—like the sand moved with him. “You could’ve walked. Taken the girl, the beast, and disappeared. But now… now I bury you.”

  Rell finally spoke.

  “You can try.”

  Bar’zhul smiled. “Good.”

  He raised his hand—sand lifted, spiraling into spears.

  Thessia stepped up. “Let me—”

  “No,” Rell said flatly.

  She blinked.

  He cracked his neck once. Then walked forward.

  Bar’zhul’s brows rose. “Alone?”

  “You’re sand.” Rell’s tone never changed. “I’m what buries it.”

  The ground erupted.

  Bar’zhul surged forward, sand lashing like whips. A spinning crescent of grit snapped toward Rell’s face—he ducked. Another strike curled for his leg—he jumped, kicked off a dune, spun midair—

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  Bar’zhul met him in the sky.

  Their fists collided—BOOM.

  Shockwave.

  Both crashed backward.

  Bar’zhul landed in a crouch, sliding back. His sandals left no print. Rell dug into the sand barefoot, leaving twin trenches.

  Bar’zhul grinned. “Not bad.”

  Then he vanished.

  Rell turned—too late.

  A spear of hardened sand tore across his shoulder. Another sliced past his ribs.

  Blood hit the dune.

  Rell growled. He skidded, bracing—Bar’zhul appeared behind him.

  Too fast. Too smooth. Like wind made muscle.

  The desert *was* his weapon.

  “You’re nothing without your jungle,” Bar’zhul hissed, elbowing Rell across the jaw.

  Rell staggered.

  Bar’zhul raised both hands—sand burst upward into a dome—

  Trap.

  The walls closed in.

  From outside, Thessia screamed his name. Neyxa sat up, trying to stand. Ko Mala rose.

  Inside the sand dome—

  Rell knelt.

  He breathed slow. Bloody. Bruised. Quiet.

  Then—

  He remembered.

  The quicksand.

  The soul grip.

  That moment in the pit where he stopped fighting and refused instead.

  He dug deep again.

  Eyes closed.

  No aura.

  Just a heartbeat.

  Then—crack.

  The dome buckled.

  Bar’zhul’s eyes widened. “What—”

  The entire structure burst outward in a frost-glass explosion—shards of half-frozen, cursed-charged obsidian launched from every direction. Rell stood in the middle, his body steaming with frostlight, his right fist clenched.

  He was holding something.

  Compressed black sand—fused by friction and aura. Obsidian shrapnel, forged mid-battle.

  He threw it.

  It tore through Bar’zhul’s defense circle—his sand style flickered, lost control.

  The strike clipped his shoulder. He spun.

  Too slow now.

  Rell was already there.

  Soul Grip active.

  Feet firm in the cursed sand. Not sinking. Not slipping. Not obeying the terrain.

  Bar’zhul tried to retreat—Rell grabbed his scarf, yanked him forward—

  And hit him with a rising uppercut that bent the air.

  Then spun midair and dropped an axe kick directly to Bar’zhul’s chest.

  The canyon floor cracked.

  Bar’zhul hit with a gasp.

  Then silence.

  Dust drifted for what felt like minutes.

  Rell stood over him.

  Bar’zhul tried to rise. Rell stepped on his chest, holding him down with one foot. The sand beneath the man’s back froze slowly.

  “You done?”

  Bar’zhul didn’t answer. Just coughed.

  From above—

  A horn blew.

  Thessia looked up, sword half-drawn.

  Silhouettes crested the eastern ridge.

  Banners.

  Dwarven banners.

  Thundering steelfeet behind them. A glider overhead. Half-magic tanks with smoking wheels and elven-beam turrets aimed downward.

  Queen Araeth’s forces.

  One of her captains shouted, voice echoing like judgment:

  “By order of Her Majesty Araeth Ironweld—lay down arms or be laid down.”

  Thessia grinned. Neyxa sighed in relief.

  Ko Mala crossed his arms, breathing heavy.

  Rell?

  He stepped off Bar’zhul’s chest.

  “Too late,” he muttered. “Already laid down.”